Chapter Nine
By now Gray sensed he had enough information to discover Samantha’s identity, which perversely meant he no longer wanted to know. He knew only one person who would be willing to help Samantha with no questions asked, and who possessed both the social cachet and personal courage to stare down anyone, even a peer of the realm, who might want to drag her away. Unfortunately, that person was not in London at the moment, a minor complication Gray set about solving at once. He sent off a letter express, and went back to his studio. The answer to his letter, when it came, would mean the end of Samantha’s time in Stanhope Street, and his fingers still burned to draw her.
He posed her carefully, mindful of his promise that the figure would be respectful, on her knees as if in prayer. “Raise your chin an inch,” he directed, “and your hands.”
She obeyed, clasping her hands directly in front of her breasts. Gray wasn’t above stealing a quick look. He planned to paint the girl in his cathedral in a shabby coat, but it was much too warm to ask Samantha to pose in one. Or so he told himself as his gaze lingered on the swell of her flesh above the dress bodice.
“Like this?” she asked, her own eyes trained on the far side of the room.
He jerked his eyes down to the sketch pad on his knee. “Yes.” She was beautiful—perfect, really—her expression sweet with devotion and hope. His pencil moved over the paper lightly, trying to catch the exact curve of her cheek and angle of her nose. Her ear, just visible beneath the coil of her hair. The slope of her neck. The expression in her eyes. He drew one sketch, then another, then another, racing to capture the image, stamped in her likeness, on paper.
“That’s enough for now,” he said, belatedly realizing how long she’d held the pose.
With a sigh of relief she lowered her hands and rolled her head. “Were you able to get a good sketch?”
“Oh yes.” He spread out the studies, rough and preliminary though they were. There would be more, but now her face was engraved on his memory, every curve and line and shade of color. He did not show her the sketches he had already drawn, of her measuring canvases or bent over her mending. He wanted to record everything about her against the day she left.
He had told himself in no uncertain terms that he was not going to kiss her again, nor hold her again, nor even offer her his arm again. She felt so good against him, so tempting and willing, he didn’t trust himself to stop. He needed to remember he was a gentleman, able to resist such desires. To that end he began taking more care with his toilet, making sure to shave every morning and wearing proper clothes instead of his usual slapdash painting outfits. Surely a waistcoat would be a tactile sign of honor, proof that he knew his place and—more importantly—hers.
And yet… He wasn’t sure it worked. Every day he found himself more and more eager for her to come up to the studio. Just the sound of her footsteps on the stairs made his heart leap. When she came in, her blond curls pinned neatly up and a bright smile on her face, it felt as if the day grew brighter. He even painted better when she was there; his cathedral painting was flowing like nothing ever had before.
Samantha was examining the sketches. “Do I really look like this?”
“No,” he said. “You’re far lovelier.”
She darted a glance at him.
“It’s true.” He lifted one shoulder. “I wish I were a better artist, to capture you accurately.”
“Oh no!” She put her hand on his wrist. “You’re a splendid artist. I… I didn’t recognize myself.”
“Why not?”
Samantha ran one finger over a sketch of her face. “I look happy,” she said softly. “Hopeful.”
“How do you feel?” he asked after a moment of shock.
She looked up at him. “The same.”
A fierce satisfaction surged in his breast. “I’m relieved to hear that! Here I put you to work, measuring a pile of paintings and cataloging them… Quite a host, eh?”
“Not at all!” She blushed. “You’ve given me far more help than I’ve given you.”
He waved it away, but it nudged the awkward question of her future back into view. “What do you hope for?” he asked on impulse.
Her face grew pensive. “To go to the theater whenever I wish. To dance a reel in full view of society. To walk or ride in the park and not care who sees me laughing. Simple things, really.”
“But delightful.”
“I want to see Venice,” she said, her tone growing more determined. “And the mountains of Switzerland. Even the Lake District. I’ve never been away from Richmond and London.” She looked at him. “What do you want?”
Gray’s brows shot up. “I? To see my paintings in the Royal Academy. To study in Rome and paint among the masters. To beat my brother Will in a horse race, and to win back the twenty quid I lost to my mate Tom Wayles-Faire.” To know your heart gives the same leap of joy mine does, every time you smile at me, he added silently.
He was in grave danger of falling in love with her. She tidied his studio every day, but without putting anything where he couldn’t find it. She did chores around the house even though he knew she was a well-born lady. She drew hedgehogs on scraps of paper and hummed on the stairs. Gray had never known one woman who could be so fascinating, charming, and yet not demanding in the slightest.
“The Academy!” She smiled. “I’m certain that will happen. You would set Rome on its ear, and I’m sure Will cheated when he beat you…”
Gray threw back his head and laughed. “No doubt!”
Samantha laughed, too, and then started to rise. Gray held out his hands. She took them, but staggered as she climbed awkwardly to her feet. Gray leapt out of his chair and caught her just before she toppled over. “I have you,” he said, but his voice stuck in his throat as she looked up at him.
“You always seem to catch me,” she said ruefully. But she didn’t make any effort to retreat from his grasp.
“It was my fault for asking you to kneel for so long.” He inhaled slowly. “Do you remember what I said about trouble?”
Her eyes darkened, and she raised her face. “Mm-hmm.”
“I’d no idea how much trouble I meant,” he murmured. And then he kissed her.
He didn’t want this woman to leave. She was the best parts of a muse, a friend, and a temptress, in one curvaceous package. And the way she kissed him back this time blew away all his notions of being a gentleman.
“Theater,” he said, breathing hard. “Dancing. That can be arranged…”
“Truly?” Her eyes shone.
“If you won’t mind my escort.”
“No,” she murmured. “That would make it even better.”
Chapter Ten
Samantha was helping Jenny with the mending when the front door banged the next day. Only Gray did that, to Mrs. Willis’s eternal disapproval, but even he didn’t usually come pounding up the stairs shouting her name. “Samantha!”
For a moment her heart stopped. She met Jenny’s wide-eyed gaze, paralyzed. What had happened? Gray sounded frenzied. She rushed into the corridor, heart in her throat, just as he reached the landing. “What is it?”
His face was alive with excitement. “Good news! No—Splendid news!” He thrust a piece of paper at her. “The Academy’s accepted two of my paintings.”
She gasped, in relief and delight. “Two! Oh, Gray, how wonderful!”
“It’s a bleeding miracle!” He seized her in his arms and swung her around. “Two of the four! A mate of mine, Thomas Wyles-Fair, has been painting even longer than I have, and never had even one accepted.”
“Is this the first time you’ve submitted?”
His face was fierce with elation. “Yes.” He caught sight of Jenny, hovering in the doorway behind her. “Jenny, we’re having beef tonight. Run to the market and fetch a joint.” He dug out a coin and handed it over.
“Aye!” She sped past them, calling to her aunt.
“You’ll come see them, won’t you?” Gray asked. He
still held one of her hands.
Samantha hesitated. The Royal Academy was at Somerset House, only a few minutes’ walk away. Walking into a gathering of artists and their patrons would run an enormous risk. Not only did many of the members know her father, there was a chance the earl himself would attend. He often did, and she knew he was in London—looking for her. All her pleasure for Gray’s achievement drained away at the thought of coming face to face with Stratford. “Wouldn’t you rather escort your mother?” she parried. “You said it would make her so proud. Is she a great patroness of the arts?”
“Yes,” said Gray. He’d clearly sensed her discomfort. “But will you?”
Having a painting accepted to the summer exhibition was a great honor; having two accepted, on his first submission, would put Gray’s name on everyone’s lips. It was a magnificent moment for him and she feared she was spoiling it—and yet how much worse it would be if she came face to face with her father there…
“Samantha?” Gray prodded.
On the other hand, how likely was it the earl would attend at the same moment she did? The exhibition was usually crowded, and Stratford hated crowds. He would have no reason to suspect she would be there. And it would please Gray, which would please her more than she cared to think about. She wanted to go, and too many times she had denied herself because of what her father wanted. “Very well,” she murmured with a nervous smile. “Yes.”
His expression eased back into a wide smile, and she realized he had grown as tense as she had. He raised her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Thank you,” he whispered, just as Mrs. Willis came panting up the stairs, exclaiming over his generosity about the beef and gushing about the news that two paintings, done in her own house, would be exhibited at the Royal Academy.
Gray must have sensed her apprehension about going, though, for only a few days later, as evening approached, he told her to put on her bonnet.
“Where are we going?” she asked as he offered her a shawl.
He grinned. “To see my paintings.”
“They’re already hanging?” The summer exhibition hadn’t opened yet, even for private viewings.
“Perhaps not,” he admitted, “but I want you to see them. The fellows who position the pictures said we could slip in for a few minutes tonight and see part of the selection.”
Her heart felt tight. She ducked her head and tied the bonnet ribbons. He’d made a special arrangement for her, knowing she was hesitant to go when the rooms would be filled with people.
They walked to Somerset House, the former palace of queens and current home to the Royal Academy of Arts. Samantha had never been here, but various periodicals had featured engravings of the splendid arched entrance of the enormous mansion. Gray led her up a spectacular staircase, now cloaked in shadows, and then into a large room whose ceiling soared overhead, illuminated by the remnants of the sunset coming through the windows set into the very top of the walls. A few men stood in a cluster in the center of the room, pointing from time to time as they directed workmen hanging pictures high up on the walls.
Gray leaned down until his long hair brushed her cheek. “My mentor, Sir John Barney,” he whispered, nodding toward a slim older man with receding gray hair, who raised a hand in greeting. The other gentlemen gave them barely a glance, too absorbed in their discussion. “Brilliant painter, and member of the selection committee. He gave us permission to come tonight.”
“I’m very grateful to him,” she whispered back, smiling.
“I wish it were more assembled, but come this way—he told me my work will be in this room.” They went into the next room, smaller but still spacious and grand. Here more paintings had been hung, and she got a sense of how overwhelming the final exhibit must be. Pictures hung on nearly every inch of wall, up to the ceiling. The higher ones were angled down, in some cases looming over the viewer. Even in the fading light, it was stunning.
“Here we are.” Gray stopped in front of a large canvas. It was a seascape, similar to the shipwreck painting in his studio, except it showed the ship leaving harbor, sails straining at the ropes, smaller boats darting around it, with passengers waving from the rail and sailors in the rigging. The light suggested the sun was rising behind the viewer, painting everything in a golden glow.
“It’s magnificent,” she breathed. The detail was wonderful, the colors vibrant. “And on the line, too!” It hung right at eye level from the cornice that circled the room.
Gray grinned. “You noticed that, did you?”
“Of course!” She laughed. “You’ll be elected a member before long.”
They strolled around the room, taking in the other paintings. Samantha thought none were as fine as Gray’s, but he praised each artist’s style, technique, expression, and color composition. “There’s something to learn from all of them,” he told her, his voice echoing slightly in the empty room.
“You belong in their company,” she answered. “I’m in awe.”
They went through the doorway into another room, where some paintings were on the walls and some merely leaned against them. “There will be the other.” Gray pointed above the doorway. “Sir John told me. It’s a landscape, painted at Kirkwood, my family’s seat in Lancastershire. Let me see, perhaps it’s here…” He peered at various paintings leaning against the walls, finally locating it. “This is it.”
She leaned over to examine the painting, marveling again at his talent.
They left soon, as it had grown dark in the galleries. Samantha pressed his arm as they reached the street. “Thank you, Gray.”
“Of course. I wanted you to see it.”
She smiled wryly. “Thank you for bringing me tonight, before the crowds. It was wonderful.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “For me as well—because you were with me.” Then his face split into a grin. “And now we celebrate.”
“What? Oh!” She gave a gasp of laughter as he surged forward, carrying her along with him into a nearby tavern, the Bull and Dog.
They burst onto a scene of exuberant merrymaking. “It’s the Acceptance Ball,” he shouted over the din. “Everyone with a work in the exhibition is welcome.”
Samantha’s dazed eyes wandered over the crowd. “All of these people are artists?”
“Or a friend of an artist,” he said happily, “or just a stranger from the street. It’s a celebration!” He pulled her into the room, calling greetings to various people, who lifted mugs of ale and shouted in reply. Several thumped him on the back, roaring with congratulations, and Gray returned them.
They found seats at a table, but not for long. Someone started playing a lively dance tune on a violin, and then a couple began dancing. Before long most of the room was on their feet, clapping or dancing, and Gray held out his hand in invitation. Samantha’s heart skipped a beat. She’d never experienced such a party, where couples held each other shockingly close and romped through the packed room without regard for propriety or the form of any dance she recognized. “I don’t know the steps,” she told him.
He laughed. “There is no dance. Will you?”
She barely had time to nod before he caught her in his arms and swung her into the mad whirl. Around and around they went, bumping into people, laughing madly, barely able to hear the music. When they finally stopped, Samantha was gasping for breath, but thrilled to the very core. This was the most fun she’d ever had in her life, noisy and boisterous and uninhibited. The volume in the room could quaintly be called a roar.
Gray seemed to know everyone there. He introduced her to them all, but the names blurred into one. They squeezed onto a bench at the table the violinist stood on, stomping one boot on the wide planks as he played, and someone slid some tankards down to them. Gray was on his feet, singing along with the music in between gulps from his tankard. When Samantha wrinkled her nose at ale, a woman across from her pushed a small glass of clear liquid to her. Caught up in the moment, Samantha drank. Then she nearly coughed it all up as her nos
e and throat burned.
“What—gin!” Gray pounded on her back. “The first sip’s the most potent.”
Eyes streaming, she shouted back, “I’ll remember that next time!” Grinning, the woman who’d given her the first glass passed her another, and mimed drinking it slowly. This time it went down easier, bringing a pleasant sense of lightness to the evening and helping her forget that she was an earl’s daughter, drinking common gin with a motley pack of artists and musicians.
They danced again, even less adeptly than before, finally stumbling to an exhausted halt near the back wall. Samantha leaned against the rough plaster, her heart pounding and her face prickling with sweat, and thought she’d never been so happy.
Gray looked at her and laughed. Samantha laughed back. His arm was still around her waist and she could feel the thump of his heart against her shoulder. He was so vibrant, so full of joy tonight. It made her well-mannered life at Stratford Court seem like a fading bad memory, sterile and oppressed. She couldn’t imagine going back to it now, and when Gray’s hands touched her hips, shifting her against him so she fit under his arm more neatly, she turned into his embrace instead. His eyes sparkled beneath lowered lids, and then he was kissing her, his fingers molding to her jaw and his mouth ravishing hers.
Tonight she felt as wild and free as Constance in those wicked stories, and just as restless. Constance was a lady, just as she was, and if one lady could be wicked, so could another. Gray’s arms around her made her shiver; his kiss made her melt. She went up on her toes and whispered, “Take me home.”
His hand stroked over her back. “Already?”
She pushed her hands into his hair, the long strands damp and curling with perspiration. He smelled of paints and sandalwood and sweat, gloriously hot male. She tugged his head lower, closer to her own. “Take me to bed,” she breathed in his ear.
For a moment Gray didn’t move. She pressed her lips to the skin below his ear. It must be the gin, or the exercise, but she felt feverish with wanting. All her life she had been told this was wrong wrong wrong, but nothing had ever felt so urgently right.
A Study in Scandal (Scandalous) Page 9
